


(don't want anything) but all of you

by MajorAccent



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Intimacy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:47:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27096805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorAccent/pseuds/MajorAccent
Summary: Physically, he looks fine.But Sander still knows that something’s wrong, everything a touch off-kilter.Sander leans up, pressing a kiss to Robbe’s forehead, cradling his face in his hands. Robbe hands take his wrists, eyes glassy when Sander pulls away to look down at him.“Hold on,” Sander says, holding Robbe’s hand as he pulls away to turn the faucet on, letting the shower heat up.
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 39
Kudos: 140





	(don't want anything) but all of you

**Author's Note:**

> the aftermath of robbe being in a car accident; the accident is mentioned, but there's no heavy details.
> 
> i joked that i was working through my own car trauma with this, but like. idk that might not have been a joke in hindsight. i'm also just trying to be better in general about, like. actually publishing stuff i write versus sharing it with four people and keeping it in my drafts forever, so that's what this is too.
> 
> title comes from a line of the greeting committee's "hands down."

Sander keeps a steady hand at the small of Robbe’s back, guiding him into the tiny hall bathroom. He sits Robbe down on the closed toilet lid, hand on his knee as he looks under the sink for some towels.

Robbe looks exhausted, eyes tired and hair mussed up from his own hands running through it. Sander knows that hair well, that it only gets that wild and disarray when he’s trying to keep a handle on everything.

“Do you want help?” Sander asks, touching the bottom hem of Robbe’s hoodie.

Robbe frowns, nodding and lifting his arms enough for Sander to peel the layers off of him.

Sander looks, trying to see any sign of injury on his arms or chest. The light in the bathroom is harsh, too white and sterile, stealing any of the warmth that’s usually in Robbe’s skin. He thankfully doesn’t have any new bruises or scratches, just faded marks from Sander’s mouth and the scraped shoulder from when he fell off his skateboard last week.

He fumbles the button on Robbe’s fly, letting him lift his hips to ease the denim down his thighs, helping him out of his jeans and briefs. There’s nothing new on his legs, just a light dusting of hair and a freckle on his knee.

Physically, he looks fine.

But Sander still knows that something’s wrong, everything a touch off-kilter.

Sander leans up, pressing a kiss to Robbe’s forehead, cradling his face in his hands. Robbe hands take his wrists, eyes glassy when Sander pulls away to look down at him.

“Hold on,” Sander says, holding Robbe’s hand as he pulls away to turn the faucet on, letting the shower heat up.

He shoves his own sweats off, hesitating as he tries to figure out how he’s going to take his shirt off without letting go of Robbe’s hand.

Robbe beats him to it, hands silently finding Sander’s waist while he pulls the cotton over his head. He moves, face tucked against Sander’s stomach as he hugs his arms around him.

Sander combs his fingers through Robbe’s hair in the quiet of the running water. “It’s okay,” he whispers, hand moving from Robbe’s scalp to his nape to his shoulders and back again.

Robbe is coiled tight, unease and worry in the limbs of his body and the set of his shoulders. Everything about this feels fraught and fragile, a careful line to tread as Robbe processes and figures out how to talk about whatever happened tonight.

Sander helps him into the tub, makes Robbe take a seat under the spray of the water, knees to his chest as he sits between Sander’s legs.

Robbe sags against him, anxiety crashing into the burnt edge of frustration. He lets out a shuddering breath, mouth twisted up as he tries to contain it. 

His skin is pink with the heat of the water, the pipes creaking before they settle into use. The ends of his hair, grown out during quarantine, have curled in the damp; and Sander’s world contracts down to this: the crowded bathtub, the sound of the water against the curtain, the warmth of the water and the room, the steam rising between them, and the smell of his sister’s soap in his hands and Robbe.

“I’ve got you,” Sander promises, touching Robbe’s soft skin, flushed red and wet. “It’s okay, I’ve got you, let me take care of you.” He pulls Robbe that last bit closer against him, rubbing his hands down Robbe’s shoulders and arms, back and forth until Robbe finally goes lax and stretches his legs out, toes touching the opposite end of the tub.

Sander wraps his arms around Robbe’s middle, pressing a kiss to the junction of his shoulder and neck. “The only stuff I can reach are Camille’s,” he admits on a sigh, making Robbe laugh a bit when he holds up the bright blue bottle of shampoo to prove it.

It’s something, a tiny semblance of how Robbe usually is with him. Sander wants to ask, wants to know what Robbe went through tonight without him, wants to know if this could have been avoided if he was just there with him. But he knows better than to push it, that Robbe will tell him when he knows what to say.

He pushes Robbe’s wet hair off his forehead and runs the tips of his fingers over Robbe’s eyebrow. Robbe turns into his touch, eyes closed. Sander washes what he can reach without nudging Robbe to move for him, his arms and shoulders and chest, down to his stomach and the tops of his thighs. The worry melts off his face, that stress fading from his frame.

Sander takes his time, lathers Robbe’s hair with some tropical-scented shampoo, shields his eyes from the suds when he makes him lean forward to rinse it out. He combs through with conditioner after, letting Robbe stay against his chest as they let it work.

Robbe’s hand grips his knee, the other finding Sander’s to lace their fingers together for a moment. “It was so fucking shitty,” he finally croaks out, the first full sentence he’s said of the night.

Sander keeps quiet, just holds Robbe tighter as the words clog up his brain, each fighting for a chance to fly out of his mouth. He presses a kiss to the spot behind his ear, lingering and soft before he drops his chin to Robbe’s shoulder.

“I don’t know,” he finally lands on and clenches his jaw. “I don’t know.” He turns in Sander’s hold, eyes tired and drained as he stares at Sander’s face, bottom lip chewed raw. He can’t tell if Robbe’s been crying, eyelashes clumped together from his own tears or the shower. “I’m just—” he stutters and wraps himself around Sander’s shoulders, saying something into his collarbone.

Sander pets a hand down Robbe’s bent spine, noticing that his hands are starting to wrinkle. “We have to rinse off before it’s freezing,” he says, feeling the hot water starting to run out. He helps Robbe stand up, holding his hips as he grips the sides of the tub. Hair and body cleaned under the lukewarm spray, Sander reaches around Robbe to turn the shower off.

Sander drapes the towel over Robbe’s head, drying off his hair first before wrapping the cotton around his middle, soaking water up. “Hold onto this for me,” he prompts, tying a makeshift knot at Robbe’s waist.

Robbe watches Sander as he dries himself off with perfunctory swipes, not wanting to spend too long separated from the other boy. “Come on,” he encourages, carrying their clothes into one arm and tugging Robbe by the hand with the other.

In the dark of his bedroom, Sander tosses their clothes and their towels in the vague direction of his laundry basket. “Hold on,” he whispers, keeping the lights off as he goes to the armoire to dig around for his pajamas and the pair of joggers Robbe left there forever ago, worn in and soft from all the washes it went through. It’s Robbe’s favorite pair, sitting on top of the clothes in the drawer Sander cleared out for him.

He helps Robbe get dressed, sits him down on the bed to get the sweatpants around his feet before tugging them up, Robbe’s hands against his bare shoulders as he wraps a hand around the delicate bone of his ankle and presses a kiss to his knee.

“Can I wear one of your shirts?” Robbe asks, voice still raspy in the quiet of the room.

“Yeah, of course,” Sander answers, already knowing that Robbe wants one that he’s already worn. He bunches the fabric, holding open the neckline to help Robbe’s head through. He cups Robbe’s cheek once his arms are through, thumb swiping over the high point. Sander presses another kiss to Robbe’s forehead, hand moving to stroke over the top of his damp curls before he tugs Robbe into standing, leading him to the head of his bed.

They slip under the covers, the night cool enough for them to press close together without worrying about waking up sweaty and uncomfortable in the middle of the night. “Here,” Sander guides him, pulling Robbe against his chest, letting Robbe hide his face against his throat as he bundles his arms around him. Their legs tangle together, close as possible with Robbe’s hand clenched in Sander’s shirt.

Sander strokes down Robbe’s back and up to his nape. It takes some time, but Robbe finally sighs, lulled by the strong and steady beat of Sander’s heart. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, trying to ease up.

“For what, angel?” Sander asks, matching his tone.

Robbe shakes his head. “Worrying you,” he answers.

Sander tugs on Robbe’s hair, making him look up. “Robbe,” he whispers. “Can I know what happened?”

“It’s stupid,” he answers immediately. “I didn’t even get hurt, but —” he cuts off with a frown , yanking on Sander’s shirt with his grip. Robbe lays his head back down, drained now that the adrenaline is crashing. “We were in a car crash,” he finally admits, clinging tighter to Sander. “No one got hurt, thankfully.”

“Still not a great thing to go through,” Sander says against Robbe’s hair.

“No,” Robbe agrees.

Robbe presses his forehead against Sander’s collarbone, fingers hurting with how hard he’s holding onto his shirt. Sander dips his head, wanting to kiss him but the angle’s too weird. They’re pressed together from shoulder to feet, practically one being for all the lack of space between them.

“What if I never saw you again?” Robbe whispers in the dark, breath against Sander’s neck. “That’s what I keep coming back to.” His voice is watery now, that tight control he keeps over himself finally slipping. “If it was worse. How you wouldn’t even know right away. And it’s stupid because I  _ know _ what-ifs aren’t real.”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Sander chides, trying to steady him. “Look at me, Robbe.” He tips Robbe’s chin towards him, taking a deep breath. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.” He breathes like that until Robbe is matching him, slowing him back down.

“You are seeing me again,” he continues, once Robbe’s heart is no longer beating out of his chest. “I’m here with you right now.” He runs his hand over the length of Robbe’s arm, shoulder to wrist. “We’re in my bedroom, it’s…” he trails off to look at the clock on his nightstand. “A little before one in the morning, and you’re laying with me in my bed.”

Robbe rubs his face against Sander’s shirt, unwilling to let go of him to use his hands. “You make it sound easy,” he says, congested.

Sander laughs and presses a kiss on whatever part of Robbe he can reach. “I’ve had practice,” he jokes, knowing that spiral of hypotheticals and the anxiety it spurs inside his own chest all too well. “It’s okay, you’re with me now in this universe.”

Robbe breathes, everything waning and winding down as he burrows against his side. Sander’s fingers play with his hair, soothing Robbe even further away from consciousness. “I love you,” he slurs, starting to go heavy with sleep.

Sander holds Robbe closer to himself, hand still in Robbe’s hair. “I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> i am on [tumblr](http://acespaceacepilot.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/SgtKarma).
> 
> i am still writing a bondage fic that is Way More light-hearted than this was, but like. that's at ten thousand words with no end in sight so far, so please be patient with me.
> 
> also: a bitch likes validation! please leave a comment! even if it's only a heart emoji! you cannot imagine the boost of serotonin i get when i wake up to that "[AO3] Comment on..." email. support your local fanfic writer and comment on their fics, it puts fuel in the writing gas tank, trust me.


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